Jump Up and Dance!
by ah-li
Summary: Pop star Alfred had a feeling that there was probably some sneaky management policy about the backup dancers having to look less attractive than the main act -that was to say, him- but that didn't stop the blonde man with the attention-grabbing green eyes from looking hot regardless.
1. Chapter 1

It should be said that the only real experience I have on this matter (that is to say dancing) is once-a-week dance classes from when I was six to eight, so apologies for knowing absolutely nothing beyond what a quick internet search has to offer. I'll probably go back and fix things when I have the time?

Oh, and questionable band names.

* * *

_Private audition for Fitzroy by Mutiny 6 pm Wednesday _the text read, or so it seemed to his watering eyes in the not-quite dark of his little bedroom, the city lights still candle-bright beyond the heavy dark curtains. It was blunt and to the point and received with an all-too-cheerful _ping _of his cellphone at four thirty on a bloody Monday morning and had it been anyone else but his agent, Arthur Kirkland would have had a few curt words at the ready, the impersonality of texts be damned.

Through either luck or the workings of some higher force, it was his agent, and Arthur had been worrying about the possibility of having to be a little tighter with his budget. Arthur quickly pressed and held the backspace key until the beginning of his rant disappeared, replaced by a more amiable _I'll check my schedule. _(It was a yes, and his agent knew it, but it would give Arthur time to look before he jumped).

Fitzroy by Mutiny wasn't anything to the point of being played constantly on whatever pop radio station, but Arthur knew its name and he knew to an extent of the man behind the whole thing, one rising teenage star by the name of Alfred F. Jones.

Anybody who watched even a few of Alfred's videos would immediately pick up the three main components of his music videos: bright colors, strange dancing (if it could even be called that), stranger costumes, and backup dancers pulled from both auditions and off the streets. The diversity in his videos earned Alfred praise from those beyond his growing fanbase; the cynic in Arthur had immediately jumped to the conclusion that the diversity was a public relations thing, but it wouldn't do to jump to such conclusions about the poor boy so quickly.

Arthur had then seen fit to do a little research of his own before making an actual agreement; bills needed to be paid but that didn't mean he was desperate enough to accept _any_ job –he had enough experience dealing with unpleasant artists to last him lifetimes. As juvenile and geared towards a female fanbase as Alfred seemed at a surface glance, word of mouth and hour-long searches on social platforms proclaimed Alfred as friendly and accommodating, the kind of person who posted pictures of his cat (a furry monstrosity with soft baby nursery blue eyes) on all of his accounts but then commented on current social events and issues with a sensitivity that belied his demeanor.

For an up-and-coming pop star, Alfred seemed to have a squeaky-clean record, and so Arthur felt his pessimism lessen with each ridiculously emoticon-filled post Alfred left on his Twitter page. Unfortunately, the same could not be said about his irritation with Alfred's utter disregard for punctuation.

He was also openly bisexual, not that that particular tidbit had any relevance beyond not having to worry about potential harassment. (Arthur had it on good word that Alfred attended all of the practices with the backup dancers.) It would make for an easier work environment should his own preference for men somehow come to light.

So Arthur agreed –there wasn't all that much choice if he wanted to live comfortably, but it was a matter of principle- to the private audition to the delight of his agent, who with a few hurried words of encouragement over text messaging had already disappeared to sniff out the next open spot for one of her many other clients. A few of his acquaintances and friends had called, Guilherme even calling all the way from Brussels on a European tour, to express their best wishes, but in the end it was Arthur alone who showed up for the audition dressed in comfortable clothes and wearing just a touch of makeup.

(A few frantic texts back and forth with his agent had confirmed an incredibly loose dress code; if he quoted Chelle word-for-word it had been "the director likes spontaneity and character.")

So Arthur showed up wearing an old band t-shirt from his college years, a pair of sweatpants, and battered old pair of Converse. His hair remained wild and untamed. There were extra clothes in a bag slung over his shoulder, with a headshot to match his (not styled ) current hairstyle, and full-body photos in a plastic folder.

Auditioning was a fine art of balance; was he the right height for the new video? Was he fit enough, skilled enough –or too much, considering the shoddy work he saw in some of his fellow performers- comely enough, plain enough? Would the tattoo on his shoulder blade –not that it was typically a problem- be enough to lose him a spot? And of course there was the vague theme Chelles had provided him with.

But Arthur was stubborn too; he'd do his best and damn the rest if he didn't make the cut. The routine this time was a change in pace; it could really best be described as bouncy and high energy, with plenty of arm and leg motions that would look jerky and uncoordinated if performed poorly. It wasn't something Arthur felt particularly worried about as he went through the scripted routine twice. Dancing had a siren's call stronger than that of the respectable office job his parents had wanted and it was a call Arthur heeded like a fish to was almost surprising how easily Arthur found himself dancing to the song, and by the freestyle he had relaxed enough to smile slightly.

Halfway through the last chorus, the recording artist himself walked into the audition. Alfred's eyes widened like a small child's might at their first taste of something magical and Arthur couldn't help but feel his confidence boosted by the expression. He finished with the last strains of the music, panting lightly, the fabric of his shirt clinging oh-so-slightly to his damp skin. For the briefest moment, the singer and the backup dancer made eye contact, only to tear their gazes away when the last of the music faded away. Alfred clapped lightly, an excited grin on his face, and Arthur found himself smiling in return. All in all, Arthur felt good about his performance, although he knew from experience not to get too confident. The decision would ultimately rest with whether or not he fit what management had in mind for the background to their latest masterpiece.

His good fortunes held. A week later, the results were posted, Arthur at the ready with a cup of soothing tea (and scotch in the cabinet) as a precautionary measure. After a quick scan down the of names to confirm whether or not he made the cut, Arthur immediately went to book the quickest flight to Los Angeles.

* * *

Notes: I'm not quite sure how this came to be but I figured it wasn't doing anything just sitting on my computer.

This is an edited version: apparently recording artists might drop by during the auditions, so I had to re-write the chapter to fit that in.

Guilherme is Portugal; I confess to knowing little about Portugal and Portuguese so if there's a better name than the one I've given him now, feel free to shoot me a message.

It should also be said that this will probably have very little to do with dance, but you can probably see that already.


	2. Chapter 2

Notes: Ahli fucks up portraying the dance world yet again

The airport thing is totally true; everything is such a hassle. It's even worse for my friends though, whose family gets stopped for extra screening because they look Middle Eastern apparently.

Even if they were Middle Eastern it still doesn't mean they should be singled out as potential terrorists, geez.

* * *

The airport was still the same shitty nightmare it was every time, and Arthur all but collapsed into a seat with what little luggage he had with him and decided that he could wait until Kiku's cousin arrived to get him. Slumping into the cold leather, Arthur threw an arm over his face and willed the headache to go away. He felt tired in a completely different way than the exhaustion of day-long sessions rehearsing, his witnesses being his tired feet and persistent headache.

"Arthur Kirkland?" A voice –Arthur was surprised to hear what sounded like an English accent, but the words were rounded by unfamiliar stresses and pronunciation and Arthur was too tired to ponder it further- asked, prompting him to lift his arm away and squint at the person standing in front of him. It was a young-looking man with dark hair tied neatly at the nape of his neck in a low ponytail. When Arthur turned to meet his gaze the man's eyes widened as if in recognition, and he jabbed at his phone screen to end the call.

Arthur suddenly realized that he had forgotten to turn on his phone after leaving the plane; he wondered -with just the slightest touch of shame- how long Yao –for it had to be Kiku's cousin- had been waiting for him.

He cleared his throat as he felt the telltale heat of embarrassment in his cheeks. "Ah, yes. Yao Wang, I take it?"

"That's me." Both of them could hear the forced cheer in the tired man's voice. Kiku's cousin Yao (he was also possibly a step-sibling or even step-parent; Kiku had never quite been clear on what his relation was to Yao, but Arthur knew better than prying his quiet friend for information) uncrossed his arms and reached to grab Arthur's suitcase, ignoring his sputtered protest.

"Please follow me," Yao said in a manner that was more order than request, leaving no room for protest as he started walking. Arthur huffed in irritation as he followed the shorter man. His tune changed drastically by the time they reached Yao's car, Arthur all but throwing open the door to slide ungracefully into the back seat to wait for Yao to throw his luggage in the trunk and then drive so he could crawl into the nearest bed and collapse.

By the time the car came to a gentle stop in front of Yao's house, Arthur had fallen asleep with his face pressed to the glass in what was sure to be an unflattering manner. Yao at least had the decency to gently shake him awake, carefully maneuvering his way out of the small car to avoid hitting his head when Arthur stirred. Arthur rubbed at his eyes and wiped at his mouth blearily, blinking away his drowsiness.

"It's pretty late," Yao said. There was a crease between his brows. "Come on, you just need to eat dinner and then you can go to sleep."

Dinner itself was a quick affair of microwaved green beans and cold-cut chicken. Yao had apologized but Arthur couldn't care less at the point; he just wanted sleep, enough to forgo his nightly cup of tea. After a quick introduction around the house _("The spare bedroom's third from the left, the bathroom is right across the hall. All toiletries have already been set up."_)_,_ Arthur got ready for bed and crawled into unfamiliar sheets which still smelled of laundry detergent and a strange smell best described as metallic.

He fell asleep within minutes of laying his head on the pillow.

Never a morning person, Arthur nonetheless stumbled his way down the narrow hallway before the street lights dimmed outside in preparation for his day. It had actually been the shrill whistle of a kettle on the stove which had woke him; the promise of tea was enough to inspire a burst of energy despite the heaviness of his eyelids and the slight headache he could feel gathering behind his forehead.

"Oh lovely, I've found civilization at last," Arthur sighed. It came out sounding more longing than dry, but he felt his lingering drowsiness was an acceptable alibi."Good morning." It really wasn't a good morning. Any early morning wasn't a good morning, but Arthur would play the part of a gentleman guest.

"Kiku told me beforehand that you prefer tea. Good morning to you too." Such was Yao's greeting when Arthur came downstairs dressed in a baggy sweatshirt and sweatpants, bag slung over his shoulder. "I only have green tea but you're welcome to accompany me to the store for something else. There's nothing but cereal at the moment, unfortunately."

Arthur pulled out a chair to sit down and reached gratefully for the cup of tea. "This is lovely, thank you." he reassured, running a hand through his hair. "I've dealt with enough powdered tea and iced tea moving here."

Yao smiled at that. "There's earl grey at the office I work at. Nobody else drinks it but me, although I normally prefer green tea." He scowled. "I brought my electric kettle to the office, since the only other source of hot water is the coffee machine."

Arthur scowled and there was a moment of silence before he got up to rustle up a quick breafast. Breakfast was a rushed affair of cereal and milk; he regretted not having more time to drink his tea at a more enjoyable speed but he settled for alternating between burning his tongue and shoveling spoonfuls of cornflakes into his mouth. It was rather undignified, but such was the sacrifice with a highly scheduled routine.

With one last goodbye, he rushed outside to catch the bus.

Finding the studio had been harder than Arthur initially anticipated, but he had given himself the time (an extra hour and a half) to get lost and find his way to the studio, upon which he had had to prove that he was indeed a backup dancer and not some obsessed fan (like hell, he had scoffed to himself).

After depositing his bag in the nearest available cubbyhole outside (they were actually afforded a locker room, to Arthur's delight), Arthur opened the doors and entered the dance studio, casting a critical eye at the place. The room was big enough to have thirty or so people in there are one time with more space to spare and it was brightly lit. From the condition of the wooden floors and the bars on the walls, the building was relatively new, not yet old enough to bear the trace of countless feet and hands. Oddly enough, three out of four walls and the ceiling were mirrors, allowing the dancers to check themselves with just a tilt of their head in any direction but towards the door behind them.

There were a few dancers already present, some stretching while others chatted quietly. As with the typical composition of Alfred's backup dancers, they were of all ages, from the young to the old. One of the older men with graying hair held the posture of an experienced dancer; Arthur couldn't help but note the smile on his face as he gazed around the studio, looking dazed and disbelieving. Soft music played in the background. Arthur recognized it as one of Alfred's songs from his first album and immediately disliked it. Alfred seemed like the person whose ego didn't need any more encouragement, and while Arthur could understand why so many people were charmed by his arrogance he had no tolerance for it himself.

Much to his surprise, Arthur recognized the man with the silvery-blonde hair stretching by the bars. Lukas Hansen was a Norwegian backup dancer; Arthur had performed with him once on a tour in Europe and he knew that Hansen had last been on a tour with a popular Scandinavian band. Arthur wasn't sure what he was doing in Los Angeles now that the tour was over, but he would be glad to talk the man again should the opportunity present itself. Lukas had been pleasant to talk to once they had discovered a common interest in folklore and the arcane. But now was not the time to chat; the chorus was calling to him and so Arthur joined the group of stretching dancers.

The door to the studio banged open around fifteen minutes later, give or take. Arthur hadn't much but the songs playing through the sound system to judge the time, as the studio seemed woefully bereft of a clock. "Hey everybody!" Alfred came sauntering in wearing a hoodie and sweatpants, still chewing the last mouthfuls of his meal. It was almost a shock to see Alfred without his ratty old leather jacket; Arthur couldn't recall an instance when the young man wasn't wearing it. Not that he had seen Alfred much beyond past interview photos, ridiculous selfies, and the music videos to his more popular songs, but Arthur had come to view the thing as a trademark of sorts.

From his spot several paces away from Alfred, Arthur couldn't help it when his vision was drawn to the crumbs on Alfred's sweatshirt; the fabric was a deep navy blue with an American flag and USA in bold white print across the front. It practically forced people to notice Alfred's obvious patriotism. The pale crumbs stuck out easily, and Arthur resisted the urge to just step up and brush them off.

All in all, Alfred looked less like a pop star and more like a rumpled college student in his current getup; a very handsome college student (Arthur wasn't blind), but still. "So I know not all of you are like super-professionals or anything so we'll just go over the basics today, nothing too bad." He smiled and bounced on his feet in a childish manner. "My name's Alfred but you probably already knew that. I'd like to get to know everyone here better over the course of shooting this video, okay?"

"Can we ask for autographs later?" A particularly bold young woman teased. Alfred chuckled and winked, giving the woman a thumbs-up. "Yeah, you guys can form a line after practice, if you aren't feeling too gross and sweaty."

Another blonde man came in behind Alfred, noticeably sterner. He had slicked-back blonde hair several shades lighter than Alfred's almost rose-gold hair and blue eyes. Arthur assumed he was the choreographer. "My name is Ludwig, and I'll be your choreographer. As Alfred has already said, we'll spend the first half hour warming up with some light arm rolls and easy swaying, just to get used to moving with the music." The tape still pumping Alfred's music through the air stopped and was replaced by another hip hop beat Arthur couldn't be bothered with recognizing.

Ludwig's stern face and posture relaxed as he took on the slouching form so beloved by hip hop dancers. His deep voice was still authoritative but low enough to soothe the beginners who copied his casual movements attentively and with all of their focus, guiding them through the motions.

"Remember not to feel too pressured!" Alfred chirped from his position next to Ludwig. "Dancing should be about having fun and enjoying the music." And as if to prove his point, suddenly Alfred stopped swaying in sync with the choreographer, choosing instead to do what seemed to be a ridiculous tap number and then a (poorly executed) moonwalk.

Alfred's performance managed to draw a few hesitant laughs. Somebody snorted from somewhere in the room. (Arthur wondered if it were perhaps Lukas.) Arthur preferred to shake his head slightly and roll his eyes at the over-the-top display, but it was clear that Alfred had somehow managed to steal the performance and steer it in his preferred direction.

Arthur was right about that. Somewhere around fifteen minutes into what was supposed to be the warm up, Alfred had changed the track to a more upbeat song. It quickly evolved into a dance-off of sorts, with two people dancing in a ring formed by their peers, who cheered and clapped and swayed with the beat. Of course Alfred was in the thick of it, whether dancing in the ring or standing in the audience, cheering and clapping the loudest of them all.

Ludwig seemed to go along with it, his face and general body language (read: long-suffering and exasperated) indicating that he was used to Alfred's shenanigans. After going over some basic dance steps with everybody he had backed off, content to stand and watch as Alfred and a woman with graying hair (in a bun, although it looked rather disheveled) shook their hips and bopped their heads wildly to the beat with a small ring of dancers goading them on around them. It was comical enough to make Arthur smirk slightly from where he was observing near the bars with some of the other dancers.

At one point Alfred wriggled out of the ring and came over to round up a few dancers who kept casting longing glances at the center circle. He was sweating lightly, enough to plaster strands of hair to his face.

"Hey! You should come and join us," he said, breath winded from dancing. The two dancers he was addressing still looked uncertain, so Alfred shot them his most earnest and disarming grin. "Please? It'll be fun."

And then he turned to Arthur, shooting him the same megawatt grin. Arthur almost felt the urge to compare it to the sensation of being under the spotlight, which was ridiculous. Arthur was used to performing before many –thousands, even- but something about having such an expectant, pleading gaze focused on him in particular caused his cheeks to warm and flush. "Come on and jump onto the bandwagon!"

Well, it wouldn't be polite to refuse. Arthur must have nodded, because Alfred was cheering and then leading him and the two other dazed dancers into the ring where they were enthusiastically welcomed into gaggle of sweaty bodies.

Arthur did end up dancing in the ring with another of the professional dancers in a freestyle face-off; when he imagined that the loud clapping and cheering was for him and him alone he almost fancied there was a warm glow of satisfaction fluttering in sync with his racing pulse.

It was only an hour later when people were starting to tire did Ludwig wrestle back control of the session; he then turned off the music and cleared his throat.

"Fifteen minute break. Now that you're more than suitably warmed up we'll go over the first part of the routine once we're done."

Arthur stayed back and watched as people formed a small crowd heading for the locker rooms and the promise of water and a towel-off. He thought about perhaps using the chance to talk to Lukas instead, but then realized that the Norwegian dancer had somehow managed to procure a book and now sat by the bars reading. An enthusiastic reader himself, Arthur decided to leave the man in peace to enjoy his book.

Unfortunately, Arthur had no book to act as a guardian of his peace and personal bubble, as Alfred himself made a beeline towards him.

"Hey! You were the dancer on Wednesday, right? You're really good! I never caught your name though. How long have you been dancing?" Alfred seemed the kind of person to ramble so Arthur didn't feel quite as bad cutting him off.

"Yes. My name is Arthur Kirkland and I've been dancing since I was four," he said in response. Alfred's eyes widened at his words and Arthur braced himself for a comment on his "British-ness" or whatever it was that so fascinated Americans.

"Wow! I've only been dancing since I was nine," Alfred admitted sheepishly. "Before that I thought it was kind of girly and wanted to be a firefighter."

The feeling in his chest was relief, nothing else. "What made you change your mind?"

Alfred shrugged and smiled. "Still want to be a firefighter, if we're being honest. But my dad brought Mattie and me to an actual concert and I guess I saw all of these people cheering and excited about them, you know? And I thought that it'd be great to have the ability to make all of these people happy and touch their lives like that, even if it seems more shallow than being a firefighter or a cop or something." He blushed. "Well, it probably wasn't phrased so nicely when I was nine but that's the gist of it. And then I found I loved performing."

Ah, yes. Alfred was made for the cameras, had been ever since he started uploading song covers at fifteen online. Arthur found himself opening his mouth to say something about himself in return –it was only polite; Alfred had just shared that story with him even if he had probably said it a million times to a million other people.

"Dancing always made me happiest," he said at last. It was a typical response, but Arthur couldn't bring himself to say more. "My mother was extremely supportive and my dad didn't mind as long as it didn't hurt my grades."

Alfred smiled as if his story, his typical dancer's background really meant something. "That's great! I'm really happy that your parents supported you, Arthur."

They parted when Ludwig called the end of the fifteen minute break, Alfred moving to his position at the front and Arthur to his position somewhere at the edge of where the backup dancers were situated. As he left and the rest of the dancers filtered in, Alfred looked him in the eye and casually remarked, "Hey, I know you know your limits but a little water break now and then won't hurt, right?"

And with the experience of having talked to Alfred himself, Arthur was beginning to realize why the young man had such a large and growing fanbase. Had he been another person, he might have blushed and perhaps gone home to post about his experience with the star online.

As it was, he was Arthur Kirkland, and he only grudgingly acknowledged the fact that yes, Alfred Fitzroy Jones was indeed a charming bastard seemingly effortlessly.

It didn't stop him from admiring what little he could see of the American's lovely body from what he could see beneath the baggy sweats, if only for purely aesthetical appreciation.

* * *

More notes:

Q: Why does Yao have an English accent?

Because China teaches British English, even though they apparently go the mixed route when it comes to actually spelling things.

Q: Why is Norway Lukas Hanson?

Because I don't know what I'm doing.

As usual, if there are any inconsistencies please tell me.


	3. Chapter 3

Notes: You know you're a terrible person when the first 1k words or so are basically the same as the previous chapter except from another character's point of view.

* * *

Somewhere in a box at his parents' house, there was a tape of a two year old Alfred happily gurgling along to his mother's favorite golden oldies songs. The family joke claimed that Alfred's first words were a mangled attempt at Animal Crackers in My Soup instead of "Mama" or "Papa."

Alfred loved telling the story, especially when his fans squealed about how adorable he was and asked for hugs. Hugs were always the best; they were part of the reason why Alfred typically liked girls better. Women were usually more open to the kind of friendly octopus-arm cuddles Alfred was fond of...men, not so much.

It didn't stop him from wanting a hug from Arthur. Anybody who liked the same bands as he did immediately won points in Alfred's book, so Alfred knew he was fighting a losing battle from the moment Arthur auditioned wearing that ratty concert shirt and sweatpants. Arthur had adopted –and perfected- a cool, smirky I-don't-care attitude while he waited for the transition to his freestyle music. Part of Alfred wanted to fan himself and swoon, or maybe follow him around in the way a younger child adored their older idol. (Arthur had looked so composed and almost bored at the audition, as if _he _was the judge and they the nervous performers.) And then he _moved_.

Arthur clearly didn't realize just how good he was, because he would be infinitely more cocky if he did and still deserve it. But what really sealed the deal wasn't the effortless way Arthur moved with the music; Alfred had hung out with many a talented artist in his rise to stardom. No, the deciding matter was the little smile Arthur had been wearing as he finished dancing; he had looked so pleased with himself, almost giddy.

He would have to forgive Alfred for seizing the opportunity to scribble down hasty song lyrics about that little smile, Alfred thought guiltily to himself later that night. Part of him selfishly wanted to keep that secret smile all to himself, but the more reasonable part of Alfred jumped in. Woah, it said. Back off there, buddy. It was just a harmless little infatuation, and nobody would ever have to know exactly who inspired him, right? Even if it was just a little crush, Alfred wanted to share his feelings with everyone –and he could, he was famous.

It was probably for the best that Alfred was up front with his back to the dancers, because Arthur was a danger to what Ludwig claimed was already a fragile attention span. They had been standing relatively close together when Alfred made his introduction, something Alfred was hyper-aware of. He rattled off an easy answer about autographs and tried not to focus his gaze on Arthur as he said it.

Fortunately, Ludwig unknowingly swooped in and saved him from doing something embarrassing like mooning over a crush like it was his first by introducing himself and starting the music. Ah, good old no-nonsense Ludwig. Alfred silently resolved to reward him by not acting up as usual.

A glance in the mirror later, and Alfred knew he would be breaking his silent promise. Ludwig was a good instructor and all, Alfred just didn't think he had the qualifications for helping those poor beginners relax their postures.

"Remember not to feel too pressured, okay?" Alfred gave up all pretense of seriousness and turned around to face the backup dancers. "Dancing should be about having fun and enjoying the music."

He probably didn't _need _to do part of the tap number to Singing in the Rain, nor did he _need _to do a (crappy) moonwalk, but at least more people looked embarrassed for him and not themselves, so Alfred considered it a win and returned to doing the warm up.

Alfred managed to hold out for a good fifteen minutes or so before he got bored and his mind started to wander. The giant robot in his last video had been pretty awesome; it was a pity it hadn't been a _real_ giant robot... A small injustice though it may be, boring the dancers out of their mind was still an injustice. And as a hero, it was his job to save them, right? Mind made up, Alfred decided that he could direct the whole show as well as he could perform. With little warning, Alfred snatched up the remote and changed the music with a push of a button.

He wasn't the best at reading the atmosphere, but Alfred had the feeling that Ludwig had actually hoped for an orderly session this time around. Alfred felt somewhat bad for the man. Maybe he could make it up for him by finding a way to get him a week off? Ludwig wasn't out like he was, but Alfred knew he had been seeing a new boyfriend recently.

His choreographer admitted surrender faster than Alfred had anticipated, taking the change in music in stride as he gave one last lesson before backing off. Alfred couldn't help the wide smile that stretched at his cheeks; Ludwig was getting that one week break _and _Alfred would treat him out somewhere nice.

"I don't know about you guys but I think there's no better way to practice what Luddy just taught us than a dance off, am I right?" Alfred's declaration was followed by some cheers. Arthur's scowling face was just as attractive as his collected smirk, and Alfred found himself endeared to the way those heavy brows would draw closer together in irritation.

To Alfred's delight, a good majority of the dancers gathered around had joined the impromptu dance-off, even if it was to hang close to the edge of the ring instead of dancing in the thick of it. Professional or beginner, it didn't matter; some of the professional backup dancers danced with less technique than the beginners. Some wandered off disinterestedly, including a man with incredibly silvery hair. Alfred briefly pondered if it was natural or dyed before directing his attention back to the group gathered around him waiting for instructions.

"Alright...the rules are this: two people at a time will dance! There really isn't a winner or a loser, but remember to take turns!"

Every now and then, Alfred would shoot glances at Arthur, who seemed quite content with just observing. At least he was smirking, Alfred thought. He much preferred Arthur's smile, but at least he didn't seem upset and even seemed to be amused by the mutiny, so Alfred considered his job as an entertainer more or less fulfilled.

When Alfred's gaze landed on two dancers who kept glancing at the loud crowd on the opposite site of the studio and then back down to the floor, stepped away from the crowd and towards them. They looked like they wanted to join, Alfred was sure of it. Just a little push...

If he capitalized on the opportunity to possibly drag Arthur into the dance-off as well, nobody needed to know. It was the friendly thing to do, right?

Alfred's effort was totally worth it when Arthur and a young woman with firetruck red hair started rocking out to the music without a care, and he couldn't help the manic grin when the man he had roped into dancing along with Arthur led a giggling woman to dance with him.

But the dance off began to wind down as people either grew bored or got tired or realized that they were being paid to shoot a music video, possibly a mix of any of the previous. Alfred graciously stepped aside and allowed Ludwig to take command of the sweaty group of people chattering with new acquaintances.

And during the fifteen minute break, Alfred managed to seek out and hold a conversation with Arthur! Granted, it hadn't been much beyond basic chit-chat about their careers, but still. Alfred hadn't known the man was British (or English? Alfred remembered something about a tumblr post explaining the differences, but he hadn't asked and he didn't want to jump to an assumption) and he counted that as one more fact he now knew about Arthur...

Alfred then proceeded to have an internal crisis over whether or not his crush was heading into creeper territory; the results were uncertain and he suddenly felt a _lot _more self-aware.

He figured that Arthur probably heard enough remarks about his country of origin though, and stayed silent on the matter. Alfred could sympathize; there were times he wished he could don a disguise as an ordinary civilian and leave his growing fame and glory to his superhero alter-ego.

But he had so many questions! His mother had gone to London as an exchange student in college. The way she talked excitedly about her time there had instilled in Alfred an almost lifelong desire to visit himself, even if Alfred knew little else about the country beyond what his mother had told him about London and search results from wistful Google searches. That, and that the British had kind of been assholes during the colonial era but that was centuries ago.

Where did Arthur live? What was his childhood like? (Even Alfred knew this was kind of personal but he wanted to know Arthur better, maybe even become friends.) He ran out of time to talk to Arthur though, which was a little disappointing.

Through trial and error Alfred had learned that Ludwig could usually tolerate roughly one or two of his various brilliant ideas to liven up rehearsals before he got mad and started shouting at Alfred in German, so he didn't really have an excuse to talk to Arthur beyond breaks.

When Ludwig called another break around an hour and a half later, Arthur had already sought out the silvery-blonde haired man and the two looked to be deep in conversation. Arthur looked vaguely amused and almost pitying, while the other blonde had a look of exasperation his face as he explained something.

Alfred wondered if he could take credit for the almost empty water bottle Arthur gripped in his right hand. As he watched, Arthur gulped down the last of the water, and Alfred found himself drawn to his neck and the way his Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. He swallowed nervously himself and looked around the room for an opportunity to join a conversation with the other dancers.

Alfred didn't have to wait long before a brunette woman wearing a floral-print sports bra and yoga pants waved him over, becoming him to join her conversation with a blonde woman wearing a cat-eared hoodie.

"Nice hoodie!" He said immediately. "And you are...?"

The brunette crossed her arms, a playful look on her face. "Erzsébet Héderváry." Alfred pulled a face and she laughed. "You can call me Eliza."

Alfred exhaled gratefully. "I always worry I'll pronounce peoples' names horribly wrong, and it's really embarrassing because I know I can't get it right." He shrugged and smiled. "But that's what's great about this place, I guess. There are people here from all over the world!"

Eliza looked thoughtful. "You know, that's right...There are a lot of people in this area who're immigrants or had parents who were immigrants. Like, a strangely high proportion."

"My name's slightly easier to pronounce," the blonde woman said with a tongue-rolling chirp to her words. "Emma Peeters. My older brother sent this to me. He acts all macho but he secretly likes fluffy animals." She smiled and pulled on the strings of the complimented hoodie. Alfred liked both of them, but if fluffy animals didn't tip the balance in Emma's favor...

"Oh, fluffy animals huh? Hero's the size of a small bear and acts like a dog, but he's really just a big cat." He fished his phone out from the depths of his pocket and turned it on. The lockscreen featured a large, fluffy white cat with a mane of darker fur and blue eyes, caught in the act of batting inquisitively at the phone.

Emma squealed and clapped her hands. "Oh, he's adorable! His fur must be really high-maintenance though."

Alfred laughed. "You've got that right! It's at the point where I've just resigned myself to having a cat-hair carpet when he sheds, but at least it's soft!"

He felt bad for leaving Eliza out of the conversation though. "Not a cat person?"

She smiled wryly. "The only real experience I have with animals is Animal Crossing." Emma snorted. Alfred perked up.

"Oh, you play that too?"

Only Ludwig could manage to put a halt to Alfred's fanboying, and so he reluctantly parted with Emma and Eliza.

Alfred really loved performing, he really did. He put all of his energy into the creative process, and he was rewarded when fans wrote in to tell him why they loved his songs. But something about repetitive rehearsal got boring fast, and knowing Ludwig they would probably be kept until dark today and tomorrow and possibly forever, if he thought they weren't good enough. Alfred itched to get to the actual video shoot, because the director had finally thrown him a bone and agreed to parts of his space cowboy proposal.

It wasn't too hard to tune Ludwig out and just let his body repeat the same moves over and over again –Alfred did the estimates and realized with a feeling of despair that they hadn't even gotten through the first minute of his five-minute single. He let out a quiet groan.

At the three hour mark, the backup dancers who had been pulled from off the streets had been released to go home, leaving only those who had auditioned. There had been a half-hour break in between and some of the dancers went to say goodbye to new friends. As promised, Alfred had indeed signed autographs for anybody who asked for one.

For the next five hours, the instruction would be more intensive and the pace would be much faster, to properly challenge them, or whatever. Alfred relished the change in pace, although it also meant he actually had to focus on his movements and couldn't keep sneaking glances at Arthur's reflection in the mirror.

It was definitely a shame; Alfred felt Arthur's dancing would only get much, much better when he was properly challenged and giving his all.

Alfred ended up having to repeat a sequence fifteen times more than the backup dancers because Ludwig caught him slacking off. Unfortunately, Alfred knew he couldn't plead that he had been distracted by Arthur -not that Ludwig would have accepted his answer. His hypothesis had been confirmed, which made it totally worth it. Arthur was a brilliant dancer and Alfred loved how he could express so much without saying a word, but it only cemented the desire to to know what song and dance couldn't tell him.

* * *

When Ludwig decided that he couldn't work them any further before they collapsed or something along the lines of complaints guaranteed bad PR and possibly a lawsuit, he finally agreed to let them go. Alfred had grown up baking under hot Texas summers and typically felt he had the qualifications to deal with heat and therefore sweat, but he found the back of his shirt damp and practically plastered to his back. Again.

Everyone left in the studio had filed out into the small side room with the cubbyholes and the stink of sweaty people intensified along with the heat. All around him, dancers were stripping off unnecessary layers and toweling off, so Alfred didn't think twice before taking off his shirt.

He thanked the lucky coincidence of having placed his bag next to Arthur's. Arthur had what seemed to be a thermos pressed against his neck and Alfred laughed slightly. The air conditioner unit had started acting up and then flat out died, and it appeared that Arthur wasn't used to the heat. The poor man was slumped against the wall from his position sitting in the corner, wearing only a large t-shirt which clung to his damp skin.

Alfred could sympathize. His first day with Ludwig, he almost thought he would collapse and need to be sent to the hospital. "Yeah, Ludwig's pretty intense, isn't he?"

Arthur groaned in response. "I suppose it would be silly of me to assume this was a one-time thing."

"Nope." Alfred popped the p. "In fact, I think he was being relatively soft on us today." Arthur's expression morphed into shocked horror and Alfred laughed again. "Woah dude, I was joking. It'll get better once they fix the air conditioning in here."

Arthur scoffed. "You'd think with their budget they would have had the damn thing fixed already, _before _we got here. This maintenance is bloody terrible."

Alfred had no response for that, not that he felt the particular need to defend whoever had sent them to this studio. "Meh. What can we do?"

Arthur pulled himself up into a more dignified sitting position and rummaged for his phone. Alfred found it somewhat entertaining, despite his own organizational problems. When he finally pulled it out to check the time, he cursed under his breath.

"What's wrong? Missed the bus or something? And yeesh, your mouth is dirty enough to make a sailor blush."

"I missed the bus," Arthur grumbled. "It only comes every half hour." Alfred wondered if "rumpled kitten" was an acceptable description of his behavior, but he didn't think he was _that _far gone and reconsidered it.

"Oh." The answer followed almost immediately after. "I've got it! I could drive you home or something, or at least closer to your house so you don't have to wait around in sweaty clothes."

Arthur looked at him. "Aren't you worried about paparazzi or something?"

Alfred laughed. "Aw, do you really think so highly of me? I'm touched. Nah, I'm pretty boring. I do this kind of thing all of the time."

Arthur still seemed ready to refuse and Alfred began preparing an argument about why one shouldn't wander around in an unfamiliar neighborhood at night (even if it was only around nine-thirty), but then he sighed. "That would be lovely, thank you."

"Great!" Alfred slung his duffel bag over his shoulder and Arthur stood up, doing the same. "Um...though you might want to put pants on first." He said, blushing in embarrassment as he gestured at his own legs.

"Pants...?" Arthur looked down, and although Alfred couldn't see his face clearly behind his bangs the tips of his ears were red. Arthur cleared his throat. "Ah, yes." He grabbed a pair of cargo pants from his bag and tugged them on, before looking at Alfred expectantly.

Alfred blinked once and then smiled again. "Just follow me, I guess."

* * *

"See? No paparazzi," Alfred proclaimed smugly.

"Alright, so you were right this once. Turn left, before you miss it."

* * *

"Don't you have other things to do?" Arthur asked after a lull in their conversation. There wasn't silence of course; Alfred had the radio on, as he always did.

Alfred would have turned around to level Arthur a sceptical look had he not been focused on the road. "You're already in my car, Artie."

"Don't call me that," Arthur snapped quickly. "I mean, I just don't want to be a bother, that's all."

"You're not being a bother, _Arthur," _Alfred replied earnestly, although he couldn't help the ridiculous emphasis on Arthur's name. He didn't need to look behind him to know that Arthur had rolled his eyes and maybe scowled.

The teasing was relaxed in the way of familiar, meaningless old banter, and Alfred wanted that. Alfred wanted to get to know all of his backup dancers, it just happened to be that Alfred thought Arthur was cute on top of all of that. It didn't have to be anything more than that.

Cute? His word choice threw Alfred for a loop. Arthur was hot, yeah. In an unconventional manner, but Alfred was sure anybody but the most jaded or critical of people would agree with him. Cute, cute was for his cat and small children and maybe some people he liked.

But Alfred liked Arthur. It wasn't weird. Guys could be cute.

Running out of time had been a factor with each their conversations. Alfred hoped the streak didn't last. Arthur seemed like the kind of person to take to so-so movies, if his criticism of the messages behind the songs playing on Alfred's radio was anything to go by. It might get them kicked out of the theater though.

"This the place?" He asked when they turned into what seemed to be a pleasant suburban neighborhood. "Because I was always really bad at reading maps. Plus, ever since Ludwig got us lost for half an hour in like, Chinatown I don't think I trust the GPS either." Alfred grinned and hoped Arthur would catch it in the rear view mirror. "But I can give you recommendations for good places to eat, if you're ever in the San Francisco area."

"This is the place," Arthur confirmed. "Congratulations, you've made it without getting us lost. You can let me out now, I can walk from here."

"You sure? It'll take less than five minutes at the most, right?" Alfred stopped the car anyway.

Arthur already had the car door open, and Alfred heard the seatbelt click and release. "You don't need to walk me home to the front door, Alfred." He gathered up his belongings and closed the door, so Alfred rolled down his window. "Go on, shoo. Go back to whatever it is you celebrities do after hours."

"Really, Arthur?" Alfred had a feeling Arthur was being sarcastic though. "Right now, all I have to do is feed my cat and go to sleep. And call home, maybe. Ma's been complaining."

"You shouldn't keep your mother waiting. Or your cat. Goodbye Alfred, and thank you." Arthur shifted the weight of his bag on his shoulder as he stood on the edge of the sidewalk.

Alfred smiled. "You're probably right about Ma. And Hero too. You don't need to thank me though. Night, Arthur!"

The backup dancer gave him a polite smile and a wave, before turning around and heading for home. Alfred waved back and wished he could have dropped Arthur off at a cul-de-sac or something instead of having to back up in the narrow street. He narrowly missed a house's mailbox but managed to leave the neighborhood behind and get home without further incident.

Alfred wanted to jump with excitement and so he did as he fished out the key to his apartment. He decided it was probably too late to call his parents on the East Coast, fed his cat, and made himself a quick meal. A shower later and Alfred felt relaxed and comfortable, even if he was too excited to want to go to bed. Hero jumped onto his bed to join him as he crawled underneath the covers, and Alfred shot the cat what was almost guaranteed to be a sappy smile as he stroked the fluffy cat behind his ears.

Everything about this shoot promised it would be one of his favorite videos. He resolved to maybe post a little something about it tomorrow, maybe a video clip of the rehearsal process. Alfred wrapped his arms around his pillow and squeezed, nuzzling into the fabric as he drifted off.

His positivity was a little harder to find when Hero woke him up by sitting on his face at four in the morning, but Alfred wouldn't let that ruin his day.

* * *

The more I write the more I realize how terribly underqualified I am to write this.


	4. Chapter 4

A big thank all of you readers for taking the time to read this story, even if I still think I don't have nearly the experience with dancing to write this...

* * *

Their choreographer Ludwig drilled them harder than Arthur's instructor in his university years, and Arthur had been a member of one of the most competitive workshops around at the time. The air conditioning had failed too, taking his tolerance with it as his hair grew damp, then wet, then plastered to his face. It probably needed a trim soon, Arthur thought as he blew a limp looking strand away from his eyes. The strand bobbed in a rather lackluster manner before settling comfortably back in the same position.

Despite looking absolutely unaffected by the heat, Alfred's performance looked worse off than the rest of them as his moves grew sloppier and sloppier as they progressed –distraction, and Arthur couldn't help but be just a little irritated at how lackadaisical Alfred acted. Ludwig let the backup dancers have their short respite as he made Alfred repeat a sequence fifteen times over; much to Arthur's disgust, Alfred seemed as sprightly as a spring lamb or whatever the hell had the nerve to look as energetic –and as blissfully unaware of the atmosphere.

If the dancers summoned the last of their energy to flee the studio for the locker room when finally released for the day, nobody made any mention of it. Through coincidence, Alfred happened to have placed his stuff right next to Arthur, and so it happened that as Alfred took off his shirt, Arthur had straightened up from rummaging around for his thermos full of cold water. Thankfully, nobody seemed to notice –or care- if his gaze lingered just a little longer than normal on Alfred's stomach, Alfred preoccupied with freeing his arms and head from his shirt. Arthur averted his gaze slowly and then nearly forgot all about when he pressed his refreshingly cold thermos against his neck.

Alfred of course chose to converse with him again, and Arthur couldn't help but wonder later if Alfred perhaps did have what seemed to be a common American affliction of being strangely enamoured with the sound of "British accents," even if Americans didn't seem to have the same fondness for British English itself.

Nonetheless, Alfred proved to be entertaining enough, not because he was particularly well-spoken in the manner Arthur typically found most attractive, but because Alfred had an infectious cheer Arthur saw no point in resisting. Unlike what some people seemed to think of him, he didn't _enjoy _a state of constant annoyance with the world. And if Arthur didn't mind Alfred's company for the most part, so it made sense not to alienate him.

The realization came easily: yes, he did trust Alfred, enough to agree to let the man drive him back after he narrowly missed the bus. Arthur felt that the paparazzi could find far juicier gossip in L.A. than that of Alfred doing his duty as the disgustingly kind person he seemed to be, but he felt as if he needed to put up some resistance, offer Alfred a way out because he was Arthur Kirkland and he did not trust blondes with blue eyes and pouty smiles.

There was a minor embarrassment when Alfred brought up the fact that Arthur had been ready to walk out half naked, but Arthur planned on putting that far, far behind him. (Beyond wondering what Alfred would look like half naked; equality and all that bull, since Arthur had embarrassed himself like that it only made sense that Alfred would have to do it too. Although it seemed a pathetic excuse even to a drunken man, so the thought derailed as Arthur berated himself.)

Of course, as Arthur slid into the back seat, he found that he couldn't really muster the surprise needed; offering to drive him home seemed well within the reach of reality, at least with Alfred. Honestly, part of Arthur even entertained the brief idea of Alfred stopping the car to help a kitten out of a tree along the way, to top off the entire night.

As for Alfred's car itself, it was old enough to have lost its new car smell, but new enough as an eco-friendly hybrid. Somehow, Arthur expected Alfred's car to look...bigger. Flashier, perhaps. A Batman logo air freshener hung from the rear view mirror next to a pair of tacky purple fuzzy dice, and Arthur could say honestly that it seemed to fit Alfred's personality, as did the magazine announcing the most recent scientific discoveries on the seat next to him and the half-empty water bottle rolling around by his feet.

The banter and teasing conversation that started up had no real bite to it, and Arthur found himself smiling in the semi-darkness of Alfred's car. Perhaps the two of them had yet to be friends, but it certainly felt comfortable enough for Arthur not to mind the idea. Mind, most of it had to do with the fact that Lukas was typically as quiet as Arthur could be, which didn't make for longer conversations.

No kittens, paparazzi, or any other interruption happened, to Arthur's relief.

He had Alfred drop him off about five minutes away from Yao's house and set off, but turned around as Alfred started up the car just to see him struggle to turn in the narrow street. Arthur flinched instinctively. Perhaps this wasn't the most convenient place...Arthur couldn't help but feel slightly guilty. After watching until Alfred's car disappeared, Arthur resumed walking.

Even if streetlights and other light pollution both kept the night from growing too dark and kept the stars from shining as bright as they could, the cool air felt marvellous on his skin. His bag bumped against his legs as he walked, and his entire body felt tired in the way that guaranteed restful sleep. The neighborhood seemed rather peaceful, blissfully free of drunken disturbances or other loud noises.

A young woman opened the door to Yao's house just as he turned on that street; she exchanged a few strained words in what Arthur presumed wasn't English with the person still inside and walked over to the car parked in the driveway.

She left as quickly as she could while still technically within the parameters of the speed limit, based on the looks of it. Arthur couldn't help but stand stunned as the car sped past him, before blinking once in confusion. Perhaps it was better to wait a while before he went to ring the doorbell, so it would seem as if he hadn't witnessed the event.

Yao had a visible slump in his posture when he opened the door. "Hello, Arthur. Was it easy to find your way back?" He greeted wearily. "Dinner's ready."

"I tried to memorize the street names before I got here." He thanked the man for dinner and toed his shoes off at the door, placing them on the stand as he padded after his host.

He decided not to comment on the dishes in the sink, assuming that they belonged to the young woman who had left in a huff.

Dinner seemed to be take-out from a restaurant, if the easily recognizable white boxes full of rice meant anything. It didn't really matter; Yao had agreed to lodge Arthur for free while he shot the video, so he couldn't really complain. If Arthur had to draw the line, it would be at fast food. A mouthful of stir-fried vegetables later, Arthur deemed the meal suitably delicious and began filling his bowl.

"It seems like the video will take a little longer than I initially anticipated..." Arthur said sheepishly as he speared a leafy green vegetable on his fork. A week or longer, maybe even a month based on Alfred's productivity rate.

"It's fine," Yao waved it aside with a lazy gesture of his hand. "I might charge you though," he said, but it sounded like a joking statement. "Or not. But you will pay for your own food."

"Of course," Arthur said, feeling mildly affronted even though he knew it wasn't a jab at his ability to get by. He had a career that paid the bills and paid well, no matter people's misconceptions.

Yao shrugged and scooped some rice into his mouth with his chopsticks. It was a bizarre thing to be envious of, but Arthur's experience with the damn things was limited to the embarrassing experience of fumbling with them when Kiku took him to a Japanese restaurant for the first time. "It's good that we've sorted this out now, though."

"Quite."

Yao seemed the kind of person to be slightly wary of strangers, and it wasn't in Arthur's nature to be especially forward and talkative, but at least they had some common ground beyond a mutual disdain for coffee. Dinner remained a quiet affair punctuated only by small talk that went nowhere, but at least Arthur knew that Yao worked for a publishing firm.

It also appeared that neither of them liked to stay up for too long, as soon after dinner Yao stood and headed for the corridor to his bedroom, Arthur following soon after.

"Cross stitch?" Arthur asked as he stopped to examine what he had assumed was a picture of the Great Wall. He hadn't noticed it the previous night, too tired to properly appreciate his surroundings.

"Yes. It took several months." Yao replied, stopped in front of the door to his room.

Arthur turned to face him, suitably impressed. "It's amazing."

"You can have it if you want," Yao offered, although he didn't seem particularly enthusiastic about the idea.

Arthur backpedaled immediately. "Oh no, I couldn't. It's good to see someone who can appreciate the craft though."

Yao smiled. "It is. Goodnight, Arthur."

"Goodnight."

A pleasant shower later and Arthur crawled into bed, glad that the off-scent of the sheets had faded somewhat under the smell of shampoo and conditioner.

Waking up to his second morning in Los Angeles felt much better when Arthur knew he didn't have to hurry to catch the bus, even if the time of his waking hadn't change. His strange dream about clocks and the color blue abruptly halted. Arthur stumbled out of bed and dutifully went to fetch pen and paper, adding the details he could still remember to the growing list of ideas for stories he had tucked away for a quiet day.

A quick investigation confirmed that Yao had already rushed off to a day at work. A note stuck to the kitchen table apologized for the rush but proclaimed that Arthur had free reign over breakfast; the tea was in the pantry, so Arthur could help himself. A key to the house sat neatly on top of the note, so Arthur pocketed the thing and set about making breakfast.

The toaster had an unfamiliar setting –it looked too damn intricate for a bloody toaster- so the toast came out slightly crispier than Arthur would have preferred, but at least Arthur knew that he had an idea of where not to turn the dial. A quick check in the fridge told him that Yao didn't have milk or cream, but the pantry had a well-stocked collection of teas.

Arthur spent a good five minutes simply poking around and picking up boxes of tea wishing he could read the labels –and he couldn't claim to be familiar with Chinese tea either- but finally settled on a green tea. An angry sizzling noise reminded him of the eggs he had left in the pan, which Arthur hurriedly scraped out of the pan and into a bowl. Hopefully, Yao had some steel wool lying around the kitchen to scrub pots with. Arthur would have to ask later.

A quick check of his phone confirmed that Arthur had more than enough time to enjoy his breakfast at a leisurely pace, so Arthur took the time to sip at his tea the way he couldn't the day before. It had a strong, slightly bitter taste, with traces of something he could only describe as vaguely nutty in flavor. The aftertaste went down almost sweet; Arthur would even chance calling it fragrant.

Stomach suitably full, Arthur selected new clothes from his suitcase and packed his gym bag. Another glance at his phone revealed more time to kill, so Arthur went ahead and did the dishes. Yao's kitchen seemed woefully lacking in steel wool and Arthur gave up on cleaning the pan within ten minutes, but at least his plate and utensils had been cleaned and laid out to dry.

He arrived at the studio a good hour earlier despite having walked part of the way, but the security at the front let him in without a fuss. Arthur deposited his bag in the same compartment he had occupied the previous day and poked his head into the studio. Much to his relief, the studio no longer seemed as muggy and hot. So the management of this place wasn't entirely incompetent. Arthur nodded once in satisfaction and sat down in the corner with his new book, content to get some reading done in a quiet place.

"Folktales, huh?" Arthur registered the voice in some part of his brain, but the exact meaning of those words fell flat, as did any attempts to communicate beyond a grunt of acknowledgement. He looked up anyway, and found himself looking up at Alfred's face.

"Hey, Arthur!" The artist chirped, straightening from where he had apparently bent down to look at Arthur's book cover. Which admittedly had a very eye-catching cover. "Looks like you're even earlier than me!"

Arthur peered at him suspiciously. "There are at least thirty minutes left before the session is supposed to start, Alfred." Although seeing as he was there as well, it didn't really make sense to accuse Alfred of anything beyond disturbing his reading time.

Alfred shrugged. "Yeah? Well, I don't think Ludwig can get on my case for that," he said, wrinkling his nose in distaste. "He actually had to come and get me because I got the time wrong again last time and chewed me out because of it, that hardass."

Arthur scowled. "Consider finding some way to manage your time better then."

Alfred blew out a huff of breath and pouted. "You're probably right... The hero needs to get there on time; the villains certainly won't wait for him!"

It was really for the better that Arthur was already well-acquainted with Alfred's obvious fascination with superheroes, for he just rolled his eyes (already jaded) instead of feeling genuinely irritated by the comparison and the narcissism/hero complex it implied . "You'd never know with the way so many books and movies are structured," he lamented.

Alfred laughed. "Man, you could probably get into the critic business. You'd be that one person everyone quotes when bashing on stuff."

"I hope not," Arthur sniffed. "I'd like to think I have more dignity than that."

"Yeah yeah yeah," Alfred said. "Remember, I was with you in the car yesterday. I'm not sure but I think angry ranting about the music industry isn't what I'd call classy." Upon seeing Arthur's scowl, Alfred held up his hands and hastily added: "But hey, you probably made it sound a lot better than I could! Everybody would quote you because you'd be totally awesome about it and say something other people wouldn't have thought of."

It was an entirely human response to feel flattered and somewhat bashful at such praise. "Don't count yourself out so fast, Alfred. You're not bad as a songwriter." Alfred looked delighted. Arthur was not blind to the responding flutter in his chest at that look, and hastily added a "but there are probably better!"

Alfred shrugged; Arthur supposed one couldn't get anywhere in the industry without being able to take a little criticism, although as a backup dancer viewers rarely cared what he did as long as he did his part. "Yeah, I don't think I'm nearly good enough to call myself the best -not yet, anyways."

"Your confidence is inspiring," Arthur said dryly, but Alfred beamed anyway.

Seeing as he didn't trust Alfred to leave him to the quiet environment Arthur preferred while reading, he got up and joined Alfred in stretching. Alfred for his part was more than eager to chatter about various subjects while they warmed up, with Arthur replying only sparingly. Alfred didn't seem to mind too much, if his smile was anything to go by. The person who managed to extract the source of Alfred's boundless energy would be a rich, rich bastard.

Soon enough, people began to trickle in to the studio and Alfred wandered off to talk to other people. Arthur decided to enjoy the respite while it lasted. Eventually someone decided that warming up needed musical accompaniment and so the relative quiet was broken by loud music and people singing along, Alfred doing so shamelessly and loudly to one of his own songs while encouraged by some of the dancers.

He sounded just as good live as he did in the studio, perhaps even better as he reinterpreted the emphasis and the way words flowed to suit his tastes. Arthur couldn't tell if Alfred had forgotten his own lyrics when he ended up singing an entirely different second verse or if was just Alfred being spontaneous. It could have been worse, he thought.

Ludwig came in exactly at the time he had told everyone to arrive at, although Arthur couldn't say that the news came as a shock. If it shocked Ludwig to see Alfred already there and busy stretching, it didn't show on his stoic face.

Alfred on the other hand responded with a good deal of melodrama when Ludwig gave the stragglers five minutes before he started, with his eyes stretched comically –to the point of being almost disturbing- wide.

("I think aliens must've abducted Ludwig," he whispered frantically to Arthur as they settled into neat rows and columns when class officially started. Arthur rolled his eyes and scoffed.)

"Now that we've gone over the steps, most of you are probably wondering what the hell that's all about, yeah?" Alfred's comment managed to wring a few snorts and laughs. "I'll let Luddy explain that to you."

Ludwig grimaced. "As per Alfred's suggestion, the video is space themed."

"Space cowboy themed," Alfred added, looking all too pleased with himself.

"Space cowboy themed," Ludwig amended. "Most of the effects will be achieved through CGI in regards to the scenes requiring an outer space background, but other scenes are to be filmed around the Los Angeles area. We will begin filming today."

In the same way that children could never seem to shut their mouths when a teacher began talking, so did the babble of dancers whispering excitedly with each other start. Alfred whooped excitedly and immediately began chatting with the dancer next to him about how the alien designs came from a fan's artwork and did he know that NASA had totally confirmed the possibility of alien life in their solar system –Arthur didn't even need to pay any special attention to his conversation, Alfred was just the kind of person to talk loudly enough to let the entire room hear when excited.

Ludwig eventually barked out an order to _shut up and practice _and the noise died down, although a few brave and foolhardy dancers kept whispering to each other all the way up until the point where talking required more effort and air than most were willing to give as Ludwig ordered them all through yet another repeat of a step until he seemed satisfied. Arthur would respect his meticulous attention to detail and quality later, perhaps after a shower and a cup of camomile.

Deadlines could motivate like few other factors could; anybody could attest to that matter. Arthur found it amusing that some of the dancers seemed to have finally realized that yes, they would indeed perform in front of a camera for the viewing pleasure of the masses, and that they really ought to put some actual effort into their steps. Ludwig contributed plenty, calling out people by name to correct them on their form while Alfred played the good guy and called out reassurances.

And yes, Arthur was counting the number of compliments Alfred paid him, although admitting the fact to himself and then admitting the fact aloud would forever stay separated by different worlds. So perhaps he did have an insignificant, miniscule infatuation with Alfred and his irritating charm; he could enjoy it while it lasted and then move on. Simple enough.

Ludwig stopped earlier than usual, probably out of pity for the people who hadn't decided on making hours-long sessions of nothing but dance their career. Given the word, people staggered to get water or even sprawled out on the hardwood floor, forming little groups as they chatted. Arthur could admit to neglecting to drink his water if it hadn't been steeped with tea first, but the idea of passing out seemed well within reach and so he found himself in the locker room with more sweaty people than he would have preferred.

"Hey! I wanted to tell you how awesome you were at the dance off yesterday but I never got a chance to." Arthur turned around and smiled politely at the woman with hair the same bright red as the cherry flavoured sweets his cousin Peter had an inexplicable fondness for.

"Thank you," he said. "Your hair looks wonderful."

She smiled and tugged at her hair. "Thank you! It's kinda limp and droopy right now though so you're missing out on its full majestic glory. You're not from here, are ya?"

He still struggled with pinpointing exact accents but he figured the woman probably could say the same, based on her probably-Southern accent.

"I'm actually from New York," Arthur said. This only held true for the past few years, but eventually one had to get fed up with being the curious outsider.

The mindless chatter continued for a little longer, before Alfred poked his head into the locker room with his phone in hand.

"This may sound a little awkward but I was wondering if anyone minded if I shot a few videos of you guys dancing, just a little behind the scenes kind of thing?" The look Alfred shot was in equal parts pleading and playful. "You can think of it as a little rehearsal before we get to the actual video. I'll be outside so just come if you wanna join, okay?"

Arthur followed. If anyone were to ask, it was because he preferred his chances with Alfred rather than Ludwig.

A small group had assembled around Alfred, who bounced on his feet in impatience. "Is that everyone? Gather 'round everyone and get in position, we're gonna start filming soon!" He pressed at his phone and smiled down at the little screen. "So I promised I'd shoot a clip yesterday and I woke up this morning to a crap ton of new messages. Holy shit guys, I feel so loved. Anyways, the super-awesome backup crew has been practicing really hard and we're sharing it with you. Everybody say hello!"

Arthur couldn't help but find the entire thing amusing as he waved, smirking at the camera. Alfred laughed and cheered too. "I'd clap but I'm scared I'd drop this thing," he joked. "Someone get the music, pretty please!"

The music started. Some of the dancers started a beat or two too late, but Arthur let it pass without much anxiety; the little clip didn't seem to carry the same weight, not with the relaxed atmosphere Alfred had set with his little spiel.

"You come join us too," a dancer encouraged when Alfred started up an enthusiastic commentary when the music came to a pause.

"I'll film," Arthur offered. The need to find a graceful exit seemed critical, what with the embarrassing smile spreading across his face. He had seen enough videos and photos of himself to know that he looked more or less equally pleasant smiling or scowling, less so without a controlled smile. Alfred sputtered a protest but in the end it was Arthur with the phone in his hands, holding it steady as Alfred took his place in front of the dancers.

Alfred would win no awards for graceful dancing in the near future, but he put his effort and energy into his performance –Arthur found it exasperating that he apparently couldn't muster the same effort for rehearsal. And there lay Alfred's charm, Arthur noted with a critic's eye. Alfred's posture held promise, and one couldn't help but let their attention be captured by it.

Unlike Arthur, Alfred seemed made to smile, and with Alfred's attention directed at the camera it seemed as if he was smiling at Arthur. It was potent, that look. It would help Alfred win millions, maybe. Arthur couldn't say he found the idea preposterous.

He pressed the small red button to pause the video and handed it back to Alfred. The phone was just big enough for their hands to miss each other by a sliver. Arthur withdrew only once Alfred made to right the phone in his hand.

"So that was it," Alfred said again to the phone. "Thanks, everyone for watching, and a big thank you for my awesome backup!"

The filming session ended early when one of the dancers sprained an ankle. It couldn't be called much of a stretch when people claimed that backup dancing was something of an underappreciated career as far as entertainment went, but their importance made itself known in manners such as the strange empty space in their formation.

Ludwig looked all too resigned when he dismissed the dancers; if they hadn't already had the weekend off Arthur suspected they would have stopped for at least a day to find a replacement. As it was, Arthur found himself with extra time on his hands, at a time when most people were still at work.

He loitered longer than he really needed to when changing, even if the thin layer of sweat that seemed to cling everywhere began to make itself a nuisance. Slowly, people began to trickle out of the locker room.

"Got anywhere to go after this?" Alfred asked. He had his voice lowered, even if there were only a few people left around to hear what they had to say.

"Not particularly," Arthur replied, Alfred's behavior prompting him to lower his voice as well. "Why?"

"I was kind of wondering if you wanted to get something to eat?"

Arthur shrugged. "How many people are coming?" Alfred seemed the kind of person to invite his dancers out to eat sometimes, but there were all of three other people and most of them seemed ready to leave. Unless...

"Just us." Alfred seemed noticeably more embarrassed.

"As in a date?" Arthur said incredulously, semi-conscious of how stupid the conversation must have seemed.

"If you want it to be," Alfred said as he squirmed. The matching blush he sported made one of Arthur's own bloom across his face. Oh. _Oh._

"I'm disgusting!" He found himself sputtering, and he almost agreed. And he had at one point dreamed of majoring in English... "As in, I need to take a shower, it's embarrassing having to go outside like this on a date," Arthur corrected. "I promise I'll think about it though," he had to add when Alfred rapidly deflated.

"That's alright. You're probably feeling pretty gross all sweaty like that, right?" Alfred laughed as if to dispel the strange atmosphere that had formed around them. "Can I test my luck and ask if I can at least drive you home?"

"You may," Arthur replied, and felt as disappointed as Alfred looked. As they got into Alfred's car he dug his nails into his palms and reminded himself that he could turn the entire thing around, should he say the word...

Alfred stopped on a street that was slightly wider than the street from the previous night. "Bye, Arthur!" he chirped. "Call me later?"

"Give me your hand," Arthur replied. He silently thanked Alfred for giving him the opportunity and fished for a pen until Alfred managed to procure him one from his car. Alfred squirmed as Arthur wrote his number as neatly as he could given the surface he had to write on. Alfred's hand was warm under his as he held his hand steady, and Arthur enjoyed how the warmth seemed to spread from their limited point of contact.

Alfred returned the favor as Arthur did his best to hold still. Perhaps one or both of them lingered and hesitated, but in the end Alfred pulled away and Arthur continued walking.

Arthur found his gaze attracted to the numbers scrawled on his hand in bold blue glitter pen as he opened the door. He closed the door behind him and toed his shoes off, depositing them on the rack. Besides his shoes, the only other pair on the rack was Yao's pair of house slippers.

His phone rang. By habit, Arthur checked the screen and found himself disappointed to see his manager's number displayed.

"What do you want, Chelles? You have other clients, don't you?"

"Hey, that's no way to talk to your manager," she admonished. Arthur heard her cluck her tongue disapprovingly and he rolled his eyes. "And why does everything have to be about business? Speaking of business, why so angry? Did I really pick such a terrible job for you?"

"If this isn't about business then I don't see why I can't," Arthur grumbled, falling into the habit of snipping at the young woman. "And no, you did well this time."

"Good, good! So I wanted to discuss prospects after this. It seems only fair, since you're my absolutely favorite Artie-kins and I feel bad for springing this gig on ya." Chelles paused to let Arthur make his typical sarcastic comment. When none came, she continued. "Wow, no argument today? Anyways, apparently Alfred's considering his first tour of the states soon, so you might get a rig there. But that's just rumors, in the mean time..."

When the call finally ended, Arthur found himself almost completely booked for the foreseeable future, one of the many reasons he disliked contact with Chelles.

He showered and sat down to his computer. Normally, Arthur preferred having a cup of tea when he wrote, but he had no idea whether or not Yao tolerated people bringing food into his carpeted rooms. His evening was highly productive, even if he spent a good hour wondering where the two main characters would go for their meeting, which led to a brief brainstorming session of his own ideal date. Arthur allowed himself a brief self-pity session before he went back to work, and it was all but forgotten as he came down for dinner.

The phone sitting innocently on his nightstand still managed to be a thought on his mind as Arthur drifted off to sleep.

* * *

I can't tell who I'm most disgusted with this chapter, ha.


	5. Chapter 5

I apologize in advance for this short little runt of a chapter.

His old English teacher (ye olde English teacher, Alfred would gripe when he felt particularly mean) would have probably keeled over in disappointment to hear it, the poor woman, but right now he felt...sucky. Like the anime character in the corner with the little flames –they probably had a name, it just wasn't coming to mind- and gloomy aura, but less intense. Even if Arthur had turned him down today, he still had donuts to heat up in the microwave. And a cat.

Living in an anime world would have been pretty freaking great though. And well, he at least got to drive Arthur home, even if they just kind of sat there quietly and didn't speak over the radio, still playing on –god forbid- a pop radio station. Sue him.

Asking to exchange numbers turned out to be a brilliant idea, because Arthur had gone and searched for a pen instead of just reciting his number to give to Alfred, and then they were _holding hands_ (kinda) and gosh, Alfred hadn't been so excitedly nervous about holding hands since his third-grade girlfriend –and that was at a time when he was just beginning to warm up to the idea that maybe girls didn't have cooties or bite or whatever young boys feared.

So yeah, the little tingles that seemed to spread from their point of contact were pretty great, and Alfred could only hope Arthur felt as silly as he did.

Their hands stayed together longer than they really needed to, just like they hadn't really to exchange phone numbers like that. As with any happy infatuation –one of the biggest words Alfred would use outside of math and science, probably- Alfred liked it. Liked Arthur. A lot.

And well, numbers were usually a good thing. Alfred still felt a little disappointed by his lack of a date, but some things just took more time than others. He could be patient. Sometimes. For special people, and didn't Alfred want Arthur to be special to him?

Hero greeted him enthusiastically at the door, winding between his legs and almost tripping him as he rubbed his face against Alfred's leg to reassert his claim. "Hey there, buddy!" Alfred accepted the eager welcome from his favorite fur ball and scooped the cat up in his arms, carrying Hero to the couch the cat had apparently claimed as base of operations. The Maine coon seemed content laying there for the moment, giving Alfred time to slip away and shower.

And of course, Hero took the open door (oops) as an invitation to climb into the shower with him. If Alfred's phone were waterproof he definitely would have filmed it, as Hero looked perfectly content to sit under the faucet and let water trickle on his head while looking criminally adorable.

Five minutes later, Alfred had towelled off both himself and his cat and relocated to the sofa, which meant that Hero would stay glued to his lap until Alfred had to get up and do other things. Phone though. Phone seemed like a good thing to pay attention to, so Alfred wouldn't be moving any time soon. He had promised a sneak peak at his new music video, and heroes never broke their promise.

(Maybe he was a little brainwashed by his father's old comic book collection and Saturday cartoons and maybe his parents had taken advantage of it; Alfred really didn't mind. It made him a better person, right?)

And yeah, the videos were kind of low-quality, but that was expected from a smart phone camera. Anybody could still tell that the dancers did their parts amazingly –Alfred knew that Marie and Thuy-vi had come into the studio on the first day without any previous dance experience- and the beat was totally a developing ear worm. Between recording the songs, hearing them occasionally on the radio, and now the video, Alfred had his own songs on what seemed to be an endless repeat –unless there was another song stuck in his head. Disney always seemed to sneak in uninvited.

He took the time to appreciate how hot Arthur looked, because it was perfectly acceptable to focus all of his attention on the video. Okay, anybody could agree that Arthur had nice legs, and anybody could appreciate the fact that he made certain moves look effortless, while Alfred swore that his thighs ached just watching the moves being performed.

Well then again, Ludwig had been pushing everyone particularly hard for this video...

And in the second video, the microphone caught a huffed sigh, a quiet mumbled "_is this how it works?"_ (so Arthur didn't have this model of phone, or he was just really bad with modern technology) in what was definitely Arthur's voice, and although the phone wobbled once or twice it remained more or less steady-

–and wait, did Arthur's breath hitch?

Come to think of it, Arthur probably knew more about Alfred than Alfred knew about Arthur, considering he had an advantage in Alfred's Wikipedia entry, website, and his pick of social media accounts, which meant that Arthur had access to what amounted to a scarily accurate, scarily detailed life story. Well, assuming that Arthur even bothered checking. Still. Alfred would prefer to tell his life story personally –Wikipedia had yet to become a mind-reader, and stories were always best straight from the source.

But in return? Really, all Alfred knew about Arthur was his job, the neighborhood he lived in (ish, did Arthur live in Los Angeles? Wait, he didn't, the area code of his number didn't match...), that he made a damn great critic, liked folktales, and if his accent was anything to go by, that he was British.

Alfred wanted to know mundane things too, things like bedtimes and ways to waste time and as a child did he have a monster under the bed or in the closet? Both? In the toilet, maybe? They could get kicked out of a movie theater for complaining too loudly, or for maybe doing other...things.

Even if he did have a few extra hours, lazing around on the couch with his cat felt morally wrong, somehow, and so Alfred reluctantly got up to go do productive things like writing 500 different lines for 400 something songs he'd never finish. Hero, loyal sidekick that he was, immediately hopped off the couch and followed Alfred to the room that could only be very, very loosely called a study.

Hero sat by the doorframe, looking back at Alfred every now and then with large, sad blue eyes. And really, Alfred wanted to drop everything and coo nonsense at his cat, but the blinking cursor and half-finished chorus seemed a personal challenge that he couldn't back down from. As with the natural order of things, Hero padded back to Alfred's chair and began to make his parrot noise of distress, circling around Alfred's feet.

"Twenty more minutes, silly," Alfred mumbled, in the same manner one might telling their mother "five more minutes" when otherwise busy.

Like any good parent, Hero refused to stand for any disobedience of any kind. Like any good cat, he recognized that Alfred would probably do anything he wanted, as long as it was within reason. And cats were always in the right. Proceeding with the natural order of life, cat and human finally left the room when Hero began to act as if he would die without food, climbing up and down Alfred's chair, table, computer, leg, and anything the large cat could reach, still making parrot noises.

Between his cat, the fact that the still largely unfinished song made him want to burst into snotty tears, and the regretful awareness that his hand seriously hurt to the point where it would probably fall off and declare itself independent, Alfred led the way out of the little study and into the kitchen, Hero following in a manner that could only be considered victorious.

"I fed you twenty minutes earlier than normal, you little shit," Alfred said good-naturedly even as he gave Hero a little extra kibble and a slice of liver for saving him from the nasty writer's block dragon. (It was kind of strange sometimes, forgetting that typically in the professional environment such terms weren't words of endearment.) Hero replied with his customary chirp and then watched as Alfred scrounged for his own meal, in what Alfred would consider encouragement.

It was an informal household. Hero took up half the dinner table as a place to lay down and watch Alfred, so Alfred felt perfectly justified in pulling out his phone to mess with it while eating.

He had a well thought out system, see. Friend contacts went below the business stuff, and even though Alfred kept the whole thing unsorted (who did things by alphabet anyways?) he still knew were everything went. A quick scroll down brought him to his newest contact, still without a contact photo.

Did he have the right number? Alfred had checked three times just to make sure, and everything seemed in place. He checked his hand again, even though the ink looked smudged. Was that a one or a seven? A five or an eight? Arthur's handwriting looked nice, sure, but it made Alfred doubt himself in more ways than one.

Well, hopefully he had the right number. He hesitated for a while over the right first message to send, and eventually settled on a sad little "_Hey Arthur? This is Alfred! If this is the wrong number, sorry_!"

Alfred didn't expect an instant reply, but an hour and a half later at ten-thirty he accepted that Arthur probably wouldn't respond that day. "You don't think he actually sleeps at nine, do you?" he asked Hero as they curled up in bed. "That's kind of weird."

Hero purred in response and tucked his furry tail around himself, which Alfred took as a demand to hurry up and fall asleep already. He pushed his nose into the pillow and nuzzled it once or twice, sighing happily. Within minutes, he had slipped off into dreamland.

It wasn't desperate in any way to have rolled over and checked his phone the moment he woke up; Arthur had friends in other time zones and Chelles seemed to never sleep. The motion was an ingrained response.

Either way, he had a new message from both Guilherme and Kiku regarding plans should he have spare time (likely not, as Chelles seemed determined to wring from him every hour of work he had put her through in high school and more). An invitation to tea and a museum exhibit coming to town seemed like the kind of relaxing, rewarding activity Arthur would need after Chelles had her way, so he sent a message in the affirmative immediately.

The message from Alfred came as a pleasant surprise, although Arthur couldn't help smiling slightly at the hesitant tone of the text. Alfred certainly seemed the kind to apologise profusely should he accidentally bother someone with a wrong call.

_Hello Alfred. This is the right number, don't worry._

Almost immediately, a new message popped up. Arthur frowned in confusion and checked the time; it was eight thirty on a Saturday morning, but he had expected Alfred to be busier than the average person, considering his profession.

_Hey! Good, hahaha. That'd be really embarrassing if it wasn't. I promise I didn't fail kindergarten!_

_Kindergarten. Kindergarden. Close enough. _

_Kindergarten is such a weird word to spell, pfft._

The messages popped up in such quick succession that Arthur had barely begun responding to the first message when a second popped up. And then a third. How fast exactly could Alfred type? How did he respond? Arthur waited apprehensively for a beat or two before he felt it was safe to reply.

_I'm sure you didn't fail kindergarten, and I suppose that autocorrect makes for a rather useful friend._

Arthur settled himself more comfortably in the mess of blankets and pillows and waited for the response.

He wasn't disappointed. _Haha, yeah autocorrect is your friend up until it's 3 in the morning and you're kinda drunk and really sleepy. Don't ever text your brother when you're drunk, ever._

Well, that was certainly advice to follow, not that Arthur even had any of his brothers' numbers saved on his phone. _Sound advice. Are you even old enough to drink?_

_Heck yeah I am! _Arthur liked to imagine that Alfred would have pouted or at least grumbled indignantly if they had talked face-to-face. _Turned 21 this July. Didn't you check the fan page?_

Even knowing that Alfred meant it teasingly, Arthur would have crawled into bed from embarrassment had he already not been tucked firmly beneath the covers. It was a precautionary to do his research, nothing more and nothing less; Arthur had learnt his lesson after being forced to go on tour with a certain insufferable French star for months years back. And so yes, he knew Alfred's birthday (July 4, something the American seemed to take an incredible amount of pride in), but actually looking for his age with the date he was given seemed strange and-

and he had a conversation to uphold.

_I'm sorry, was this mandatory reading?_

_I feel betrayed, Artie. I didn't peg you as the minimum requirements guy._

Arthur rolled his eyes, feeling less embarrassed for himself now than Alfred.

_I'll try to be more meticulous next time._

Well, enough was enough. He couldn't spend the rest of the day in bed, no matter how delightful the conversation. Arthur stretched, sat up, and set about making the bed, the phone perched on the table within easy reach.

_Lucky for you, you have the top expert right here if you need any help!_

The joke about student-teacher roleplay which sprang to mind seemed highly inappropriate for the conversation. Arthur blamed Francis. With a slight huff, he smoothed the comforter out to lie more or less even on the bed before replying.

_I'll make sure to come and ask any questions that may pop up._

After making sure that he looked presentable, Arthur slunk into the kitchen feeling distinctly embarrassed, as for all intents and appearances it seemed as if he had woken up rather late that morning. He stopped in front of the door to the pantry, the space between the door and the wall too small to pass through without further embarrassment or without disrupting the person currently blocking the way.

Yao stood in the doorway of the pantry, seemingly lost in thought as he stared at the various food items stored inside. "Porridge or bing?"

Arthur blinked in confusion. "What?"

"For breakfast." Yao began pulling out ingredients from the shelves; containers filled with beans of different colours, flour, what looked like a jar full of rose buds... "Are you hungry?"

Usually, breakfast was only this complicated when Arthur attempted to eat out. "Not particularly," he said at last. He stepped in and plucked a container of small red beans the small and the jar of rose buds from the pile growing in Yao's arms and placed it on the kitchen island.

"It's probably too late for porridge," Yao conceded as he began placing ingredients back on the shelves. "Bing is rather like naan, if you've had that before. And there's always cereal."

The manner in which Yao talked left Arthur with the feeling that his input was less for the sake of carrying out a conversation and more for providing some sort of verbal feedback for the other man's thoughts, so he trailed after Yao as the man began to set ingredients on the island counter. It felt...strange, certainly, to feel so uneasy in a kitchen.

"Can you get the green onions from the fridge and dice them? They should already be washed." Yao said from his position near the sink, watching the water fill the bowl he had procured carefully. Arthur found himself obeying without so much of a word in protest, more glad for the opportunity to do something resembling normal.

After he finished dicing the onions, Yao called him over to help roll out the shape of their breakfast –the name's pronunciation firmly out of his grasp- before evidentially finding fault in Arthur's work and dismissing him from the kitchen, which probably stung more than it should.

The sound of something sizzling merrily in a pan and the scent of salt in the air was apparently enough to convince his stomach that yes, it did indeed have an appetite, and it let out a happy little rumble when Yao set down a plate stacked with what looked like thicker pancakes with a smattering of green onions throughout. His host smiled and looked pleased with what he saw in Arthur's expression. "There's tea on the stove," he said.

Well, some slights could be forgiven. It wouldn't do to hold a grudge.

"McDonalds should totally deliver," Alfred groaned as he spun around in his rolling chair. He didn't sign up for all of this crap when he decided on his career; singing was supposed to be fun, not this ridiculous management stuff and responding to email, blah blah blah...

Hero purred and swished his tail lazily across Alfred's abandoned keyboard; the traitor had stopped caring sometime around the third time Alfred broke down un-heroically in the face of adult life.

"Wait, do they?" And normally Alfred knew not to trust the tricky little voice urging him to just abandon real life, give up his firstborn child and spend the rest of his days on YouTube or Tumblr, but this was for research. And his grumbling stomach.

It turned out that no, McDonalds didn't deliver. Plus, looking at all those pictures of burgers and stuff made him hungrier. Alfred slumped down further in his ergonomic chair (not that it would help him and his terrible posture now) and blew a puff of air at that one strand of hair, which bobbed cheerfully. Well, at least the pizza places around wouldn't let him down.

Somehow, Hollywood had led him to believe it would all be...more glamorous. And well, sometimes his stylist would bully him into a nice suit for like promotions and stuff. Or music videos, but at least those were fun.

Alfred could have sworn there was a point to this...anyways, ordering a large pizza and some breadsticks seemed awfully lonely for just himself and Hero. And while he had the feeling that part of it had to do with the empty spot on his kitchen table he saved for desert, Alfred also knew that he was a people pleaser and would shrivel up and die if left alone for too long.

_Do you ever wonder what chocolate covered ants taste like? _Texting became a lot harder when he had pizza to deal with, huh.

_What? _Alfred snorted at that. Man, if only he could see Artie's face...

_I'm looking at reviews for this cool candy store. I've never had chocolate covered ants and I kinda want to try some. Plus they have a station where you can build your own candy bar!_

_That's an invitation out, in case you missed it. ;P_

Apparently, pizza had confidence-granting powers. Did the winking face work as a kind of "jk" thing? But "jk" was never an acceptable excuse...

_That sounds lovely, Alfred. What time?_

If anyone asked, good luck totally tasted like the meat lover's pizza from the little place down the street.

Please don't be angry with me, haha


End file.
